


Catching

by Fluffifullness



Series: Tumblr MakoHaru Festival [2]
Category: Free!
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Prompt Fic, Sickfic, Tumblr: makoharufestival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffifullness/pseuds/Fluffifullness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Makoto starts to thank him as his hands close on the edges of the thing, but he doesn’t manage to finish the first word before he’s choking and gagging into it. Haru is careful about keeping the staring to minimum, but he does fulfill his promise to hold Makoto upright – and he adds to that his other hand rubbing little circles into Makoto’s shoulder, the way he used to see Makoto’s mother do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catching

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "watching" challenge of the [makoharu festival on tumblr](http://makoharufestival.tumblr.com/). The tumblr post is [here](http://makoharufestival.tumblr.com/post/73690743932/challenge-watching-user-fluffifullness-rating). Enjoy! :)

Makoto is incredibly bad about complaining when he’s feeling sick. In most people’s books, that’d probably mean that he shares too much about all the ins and outs of his own symptoms, but in Haru’s mind, it’s just the opposite. Because there’s supposed to be a limit to everything – selfless stupidity included.

“You should’ve said something hours ago,” he mutters at Makoto, slumped pale-faced and sticky with sweat in front of the toilet in Haru’s bathroom. “So we could’ve caught it before it got bad.”

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” Makoto sighs with a short laugh. “Sorry, Haru-chan. I wasn’t expecting this, either.”

Haru levels a glare at Makoto. “You were walking funny.”

Makoto grins sheepishly. “My stomach might’ve been hurting a little, I guess.”

‘A little’ as in enough to make it hard to stand up straight. He regrets not speaking up when he first noticed the little cringing motions and brief-but-there pained looks, but maybe Makoto’s right, anyway – he was already sick, so it’s not like Haru could’ve fixed anything.

“C’mon,” he says after a moment, and he offers Makoto a hand up. The taller boy eyes it warily for a long moment before finally accepting it and dragging himself tiredly to his feet.

“I don’t want you to get sick, too,” he says. “I think I can get home on my own, so you don’t have to worry.”

Haru frowns. “No, you’re staying here. It’s cold out.”

“It’s not that far…”

He pretends that he hasn’t heard anything, and, for the time being, that’s good enough. Makoto doesn’t complain – of course – as he’s led out of the bathroom and down the hall to Haru’s room. He does try to keep some of his weight off of Haru, but the effort’s mostly wasted. He’d be awkwardly bulky even without the mostly-full pressure of his stupid, exhausted self on Haru’s shoulders.

Haru’s glad when he has the chance to let him down on a guest futon – already laid out, a just-in-case measure for the long night of studying they’d been planning – before Makoto wound up gagging and retching into a toilet, that is.

“Idiot,” he mutters as an afterthought.

“Your bedside manner’s as cold as ever,” Makoto comments with a short smile. “Are you sure about this, though? You can’t afford to get sick so close to finals.”

“Well, what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. I can always study in bed.”

“No. No way,” Haru says immediately. “What if it gets worse?”

Makoto’s smile returns full-force. He even laughs a little. “Thanks for worrying about me, Haru-chan.”

Haru can’t help the way his glare falters right then; he sighs and turns so that Makoto can only see half of his blush. “Need help changing? Or – something to drink?” His voice breaks awkwardly on the last part; it sounds just like a lame attempt at disguising the first question.

(It might be – just a little.)

Makoto grimaces and – and for a moment, looks almost ready to accept help.

But then he’s chuckling, strained-sounding, and Haru looks at him like he’s never heard anything stranger in his entire life.

“Some water would be great,” and that’s it. Another clueless smile, head tilted, hands held close to his stomach. He winces again.

Haru doesn’t bother hiding his disappointment as he turns to give his boyfriend a bit of privacy.

 

He comes back to find Makoto shivering under the covers on the futon. His face is turned to Haru, lips pressed into a tight line, eyebrows drawn down and eyes closed. He looks pathetic, but at least he’s not trying as hard to hide the discomfort. If it means that he’s relaxed a little, Haru doesn’t mind helping him through the rest.

He tries to make enough noise in crossing from the door to the futon that he won’t startle Makoto; Makoto lets his breath go at the first creaking of the floorboards, opens his eyes and nods in greeting.

“Hey,” he breathes.

“Can you sit up on your own?”

Makoto nods again and raises himself weakly onto his arms. He looks around for something to support himself with, and, finding nothing, settles for bracing the weight of his upper body on his knees.

Haru sighs. “I can hold you up. This isn’t gonna work if you hide your face like that.”

Makoto twitches and peers sheepishly up at Haru. “Sorry, I think – did you bring a bucket, or –?”

He cringes again and folds in on himself even more – and Haru gets the message. Without taking his eyes off of Makoto, he reaches behind himself and feels for the plastic bowl – the black one, specifically reserved for this kind of thing since what seems like the beginning of time.

Makoto starts to thank him as his hands close on the edges of the thing, but he doesn’t manage to finish the first word before he’s choking and gagging into it. Haru is careful about keeping the staring to minimum, but he does fulfill his promise to hold Makoto upright – and he adds to that his other hand rubbing little circles into Makoto’s shoulder, the way he used to see Makoto’s mother do it.

When Makoto’s finished, he moans and pushes the spent bowl off to one side.

“Sorry about that,” he rasps. “I thought I was getting better already.” He sounds more disappointed than anything else.

“Stop apologizing,” Haru murmurs as he pushes Makoto’s bangs away from his eyes. “No one recovers that fast, anyway. The fever’s not too bad, though,” he adds after another moment, palm pressed to Makoto’s sticky forehead. The skin there feels weirdly delicate, almost like touching it even as gently as this could leave a bruise; Haru chalks that up to his own imagination, to the general strangeness of seeing Makoto sick and weak.

Makoto blinks slowly at Haru and then lowers his eyes. “I probably just need to sleep.”

“Obviously,” Haru responds wryly. “Take this.”

Makoto accepts the tall glass when Haru hands it to him, and with a low sigh he brings it to his mouth. Several drops immediately escape the corners of his lips and spill onto the front of his T-shirt when he tries to take a drink, but – a bit of light choking aside – he still manages to drain nearly half of it before passing it back to Haru.

“That should help,” Makoto says with a tiny grin. He lets Haru lower him back onto the futon, and then he situates himself so that he’s still looking up at the smaller teen. “You’re pretty good at this, Haru-chan.”

“You’re better…”

“Hm?”

“Never mind,” Haru answers quickly. “Just go to sleep already.”

Makoto smiles that weird, kind of all-knowing smile of his and hums acquiescence, but he doesn’t close his eyes until another long, still moment has passed between them.

 

Of the two, Makoto is usually the one who takes the longest to fall asleep. Now, though, he’s probably too tired to be kept awake by much of anything. Haru can’t tell exactly when his breathing’s slowed down enough to promise unconsciousness, but at some point he’s finally sure enough of it to whisper Makoto’s name just under his breath.

Nothing. No response. Makoto’s head turns a little to the side, but his lips don’t twitch up into a smile and his eyes stay closed.

“Be right back,” Haru says, again very quietly, and he carefully leaves the room to clean and empty the bowl. He also looks for a towel, a second bowl – smaller than the other one, but still large enough to hold a fair amount of water – and then he comes hurrying back with it all gathered up in his arms.

Makoto is right where he left him, face turned slightly away, chest rising and falling slowly. His cheeks are flushed a bright pink and his face is still shining under a fine layer of sweat, but if it weren’t for that, he might look just as healthy as he usually does.

Haru feels bad for him, but he’s also kind of justifiably annoyed. No one but Makoto could possibly look that good even sick, and definitely no one else could be as nice about the whole thing. He acts like he doesn’t need any help, but anyone in their right mind would want to offer it to him – Haru’s sure of it.

He sighs defeatedly and sets his things down a few feet away from Makoto’s futon. Steals one more quick glance at the brunette and then finally – finally moves a little bit closer.

Lies down slowly, his clothes – he still hasn’t changed into pajamas – dragging across his skin, rustling too loudly. Shifts up a little so that he and Makoto are at eye level, hands almost meeting in the space between their bodies.

Makoto’s body is radiating heat. Haru can feel it almost a foot – _only_ a foot away. Less, even. His lips are chapped, too; he hadn’t noticed before, not even when he went to check Makoto’s temperature. Where he isn’t all flushed and sticky, his skin is paler than normal.

So, really up close, he does look sick. _Really_ sick.

Haru frowns and reaches up to mess with a strand of Makoto’s hair. He’s not sweating quite enough to have soaked every inch of himself, so what Haru feels is still soft, chestnut-brown and dry. Messy, too – parts here and there are sticking up at funny angles. A bad case of bedhead, and the idiot hasn’t even been asleep for long.

Makoto stirs suddenly, groans and moves his hand out – away from the rest of him – and to Haru, who stares at it and at Makoto for a long, tense moment.

But Makoto doesn’t open his eyes and he doesn’t seem bothered by the relative cold. Haru smiles to himself and – still watching Makoto’s face for signs of waking – closes that tiny distance to hold his boyfriend’s hand in his own.

It’s not that they haven’t touched a lot more than this in the past – it’s just that something about it is more precious, maybe delicate when it’s done in secret. When it’s like he’s protecting Makoto, watching his face change as he dreams.

He almost looks like he’s smiling, even when he’s not. He’s always so calm, anyway, that Haru never expects him to look as relaxed as he does when he’s asleep. Totally unguarded.

His eyebrow twitches suddenly, but before Haru can sit up or say a word, Makoto’s smiling again.

“Haru… You should get some sleep, too…”


End file.
